


like someone else's memories

by jvo_taiski



Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Dallas is whipped, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, because there’s not enough soft Tim/Dally, it’s a lot cuter than the summary implies, it’s really soft, they’re basically married anyway, unconventional engagement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: “Dal,” Tim says slowly, a funny look on his face as he turns the letter over in his hands. “Dal, how much do you remember from two nights ago, at that fuckin’ party Angela had?”Or, Dallas and Tim get wasted and end up married for the kicks—and neither of them remembers until a letter shows up a couple days later.
Relationships: Tim Shepard/Dallas Winston
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	like someone else's memories

You wake up to the sound of Tim hurling and you groan, trying unsuccessfully to pull the pillow further over your head. It doesn’t work, and you went to sleep in your jeans so it’s not long before you slide out of bed and strip off, grabbing a towel.

Tim’s sprawled by the toilet bowl, arms resting on the rim, and you know he’s pretty damn out of it if he’s touching the fucking toilet rim—it was Tim’s turn to clean the bathrooms the other day, and you know damn well he hasn't done it. You chuckle, and contemplate kicking him, but end up running a soothing hand through his mess of curls instead. Tim’s the type who can hold his alcohol real good until the morning after, when everything comes back up with an absolute motherfucker of a hangover.

“Mornin’, baby.”

He groans and slaps you away, leaning against the cold tile with his eyes closed.

“How ya doin’?” you tease and he scowls, dragging a hand over his face.

“I swear ta god, Dals—if you don’t shut th'fuck up—” he manages to rasp and you just laugh again, grabbing the aspirin from the cupboard. You’re feeling nice so you leave a couple out for Tim, alongside a glass of water, before hopping into the shower. The hot water feels heavenly against your back, drumming out the remains of any headache that you had—and a good breakfast will get rid of that feeling of an unsettled stomach.

It’s not too long before Tim slides in with you. He yawns and slumps against your chest, bending his knees a little so he can slot his face by your neck. You feel the tops of his curls tickling the bottom of your ear until the water finally manages to beat his hair down, and it’s nice, just standing there, with cold tile on your back and Tim’s warm body moulded to your front. But a water bill’s still a water bill so you give him a gentle shake. Tim grumbles, but stands up straight to kiss the corner of your mouth, and you complain about his breath but reach for the shampoo anyway.

You like washing Tim’s hair. It’s long, goes just down to his shoulders when it’s straightened by the water, and it feels strange and heavy in your hands. He sighs like a cat when you run firm fingers over his scalp, like he always does, and you take longer than necessary when washing the lather out because you’re distracted watching the way he tips his head back under the cascade of water and gives this content little smile that you never used to see.

He wrings his hair out a bit then does that towel-head-turban thing like girls do (you still haven’t got a flying fucking clue how) while dripping all over the floor and you can’t even find it in yourself to tell him to wipe it up before someone slips. Tim almost makes it through brushing his teeth without gagging so you snicker and call him a pansy-ass, but you can’t help casting little looks at him while he sneaks another aspirin when he thinks you can’t see, when he takes off the towel-hat and those curls, miraculously forming again after being smoothed straight, tumble out onto his forehead. You can’t resist running a hand through them again while he’s brushing his hair. They’re soft, damp, a little warm from being cocooned and each little lock springs back and bounces when you give it a gentle tug.

“You’re starin’,” he says, one side of his mouth flicking up. You lean forwards to press your thumb into his dimple, nail digging in just a bit.

“And I’m not allowed to stare?”

“You like what you see?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, too bad,” he announces, letting the hairbrush fall back on the side with a clatter. “I swear, if I do anything more strenuous than having a cup of coffee, I’m gonna hurl again.”

You can’t help leaning forwards though and kissing him, gently, and you smile against his lips. Tim gives a little laugh when you part, and it sounds like a stream in spring.

Typically, Tim’s already sprawled over the whole couch by the time you finish eating. You think he’s asleep but when you try move his legs gently aside, the first thing the asshole does is shove his cold feet straight up your shirt. It makes you hiss and grab them, but once you get used to it, you allow it, running a soothing thumb over the arches on his feet.

The TV’s playing something real quiet, some sort of nature documentary where the voice is all disembodied and static, and you can still hear the radio crackling out something that sounds like swing from the kitchen. There’s a fuckin’ spring from the couch digging into your back but you don’t pay it any attention, unwilling to move from the position you’ve found tangled up with Tim, one hand resting on his ankle and the other trailing the floor.

The TV carries on playing softly but you’re only half-paying attention, your view flicking between the monochrome fish on screen and Tim’s sleeping face. You imagine that the ocean is blue like Tim’s eyes as the narrator describes life cycles or some shit and shoals of fish drift past, scales shifting and glittering in black and white, past jellyfish that are huge and look like full-moons. Tim’s silver tooth catches the light like a fish scale, but brighter, sharper. He’s got one hand curled up next to his face and the other draped across his chest, fingers brushing his own heart.

It’s an easy moment, and you wonder how the hell you got here after so many years of animosity but you drift off to sleep before you can think of an answer.

“Dal,” he says slowly, a funny look on his face as he turns over the letter in his hands. “Dal, how much do you remember from two nights ago, at that fuckin’ party Angela had?”

You look up from your cup of coffee. “Jack all. Why?”

“D’you remember anythin’—anything at all—about an Auditor’s Office?”

“Nah, what? Do you?”

“Bits and pieces,” he gulps, and slides the letter over to you. It’s a fucking marriage licence.

You just stare at it, feeling kind of faint, and okay, yeah. Maybe you do remember little bits and pieces, snatches of Tim laughing in some sort of reception area and feeling like you really, really want to kiss him.

“What the fuck?” Your voice comes out distant to your own ears, ringing and echoing. “How? I woulda sworn you need all kinds of references and a statement from your boss or something to even get one of these things.”

“We were at Angel’s party, Dal—I’ll bet it was her who fuckin’ started this. There were plenty of people around, including your fuckin’ boss Buck fuckin’ Merril, who would’ve found it plenty funny to get us married.”

“Shit. Does this mean we’re married now?”

“Nah, we still need a ceremony or some shit. And get a certificate. If we were gonna. You know.”

Tim swallows and turns around, at the same time as you get up and mutter that you’re gonna be late for work and all the while, your ears won’t stop ringing and your breath won’t stop coming short and you remember sections on the form like _why do you want to marry Mr Timothy Shepard?_ You can think of a hundred and one reasons and wonder which one you put on that fuckin’ piece of paper.

It’s not something you’ve ever talked about, ever, or even thought about in the dark. Just having him was a miracle enough, and even though you’ve been _together,_ technically, for just over seven years and still you’ve never said—

Fuck it.

The license is still tossed on the table when you get back late, between an empty milk carton and a stack of bills. You stand in the kitchen, suspended in thought for a moment, running a finger over the edge of the paper until it leaves a cut and you bite your cheek so hard you think you taste blood.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers when you walk into the room you share, threadbare sheet half-thrown over his thighs. He’s about to go to bed—you walk up to him and tip his chin up to catch the way his deep blue gaze darts all over your face before settling on your lips. 

“Did you eat already?” he asks, fingers tugging at the bottom of your tank tap. You know you probably still smell awful, like dirt and horses and hay.

“Yeah,” you say, taking his fingers in yours and looking down at the way they fit tangled together and you want so badly it hurts.

“You comin’ to bed?”

“Yeah.”

His lips open softly when you kiss him and you stay like that a long while.

“Tim.” When you finally speak, your voice sounds high and shaky. “I love you.”

When you drop to both of your knees instead of one, hands trembling in his by the side of the bed, you can’t help thinking _oh god, I don’t know what I’m doing—_ because you don’t, you have no fucking clue. All you have are cold fingers and a cheap ring that you bought no more than an hour ago; you don’t even have a box.

“Tim, would you—” you’re saying, choking over your words. “I mean, will you—”

And then he’s saying “Yeah, yeah—I’d—I will—”

“Oh _god._ ”

One moment the two of you are fumbling with that cheap ring, all four of your hands messy and gentle and in the next, you’re pressing him to the bed, his finger in your ring and you want him inside you.

“Dal, baby—” He won’t say it back; you’re not expecting him too. There’s too much history there, too many things to unpack too quickly and you don’t mind, not when you know it anyway, really. You’re surprised it even slipped your lips but you find yourself imagining days, maybe years on, when you’re able to say it freely and see that expression on his face every single time.

You ride him slow, gaze fixed on every little movement of his features, the curve of his open mouth, the sheen of sweat on a slender collarbone, and when he flips you around, your legs tight around his waist, it stays soft as anything. You’re so lost in it that you don’t even notice how close you are until one touch from him sends you gasping and trembling and clutching him even closer.

Buck gives you a weird look when you come into work the next morning and start shovelling the stables without complaining for at least 10 minutes first.

“What?” you demand.

He shrugs. “I ain’t ever—and I mean ever—seen you come into work _smiling_ before, especially when you’re limping and look like you didn’t sleep a fuckin’ wink.”

You chuck a finger up at him and he looks like he’s about to start bitching again before he pauses, squints, and gets a better look at it. “You and Shepard—”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” you say, smugly.

He cracks a smile that shows the gap where his front teeth used to be and shakes his head in disbelief. “I thought you was fuckin’ kiddin’ when Angela asked me to write a god-damned verification letter for the fuckin’ _Auditor’s Office._ ”

“I ain’t even remember it, I was too sloshed,” you shrug, leaning on your shovel. “And neither does Tim.”

Buck takes his eyes off the colt he’s petting to give you proper eye-roll. “You’re fuckin’ out of your minds, you are, the both of you. I never expected that in a million years, but I guess if Shepard can make you smile like that when you’re limpin’ and tired—”

“You ever consider he’s the reason I’m limping and tired?”

Your grin is slightly sadistic when you see the cogs turning in his head and you take joy in his green expression of revulsion when he finally puts two and two together.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, I did _not_ need to know that—”

“Aw, c’mon Buck,” you say with a wink and another smirk at his discomfort. “You know what they say about practise makes perfect. I ain’t get this good at ridin’ for no reason—”

He groans. “You shut the hell up, kid.”

You just laugh again and twist the silver band on your finger. It’s a warm weight, a little reminder, a promise, and you’ve never felt so free.

**Author's Note:**

> deadass idk how someone gets married i typed into google 'how to get married usa' and picked the first random thing that came up. i listened to Happy by Mazzy Star while writing and i pinched the title from there as well.
> 
> also? is it just me that feels like there's an appalling lack of soft Tim/Dallas? like i get it, they're both bitter little shits but c'mon, they deserve a break
> 
> one last thing-- i decided to make a tumblr for the shits and giggles and i genuinely don't know what to do with it,, hmu with ideas @jvo-taiski


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